


Suddenly, you

by minavagante (prouvairing)



Series: oh partisan, take me away [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Italy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don Matteo AU, M/M, Masturbation, Piningjolras, Tattoos, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Enjolras has very impure thoughts that lead to equally impure actions. In oratory bathrooms. And against walls in tiny Sicilian towns.<br/>All because of Grantaire's damned tattoos and his habit of painting shirtless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [All'improvviso, tu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/960930) by [minavagante (prouvairing)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/minavagante). 



> It is stunning to me that I haven't posted this yet because 1) SMUT?! and 2) It was written in English first, for god's sake!  
> If I'm posting it it's thanks to Beth besanii, my smutty partner in crime, who reminded me.
> 
> Original notes from the fic, posted 2013-09-09:  
>  _Finally the fic I'd promised you a thousand years ago, which had to wait for 1) me having the guts to write it 2) me getting my Internet back and 3) Izzie beta-ing it (if you didn't know, Izzie firmine is a goddess, truefact)_  
>  And also our very first piece of smut *uncorks champagne, fireworks in the distance*  
> Have fun. __

The first thing you notice is that someone is painting on the side of the Sun Musano, just where the swings and slide for the orphanage kids are. With spray paint.

So, of course, the first thing you feel is anger: how _dare_ they? Yes, you openly criticize the Church as an institution – oftentimes chasing Don Myriel on his bike to make your point, even though he only smiles and tells you that _God is love_ like it means anything to pregnant teenagers who want to get a legal abortion – but some shirtless dude vandalizing the San Musano still makes your blood boil.

(It may have to do with yourself as a small, angry, lonely child and how the oratory gave you tables to stand on to make yourself taller, and friends to hear your shouted words).

Ah, yes.

The second thing you notice is that the dude spray-painting the side of the oratory is, in fact, shirtless.

And that’s where it all goes downhill because you start noticing the splatters of paint and the tattoos on the boy’s skin, the sun nestled between his shoulder blades – whose rays are triangular and sharp as blades, of differing lengths, one spiking long to the left to seemingly pierce his heart – and the words in pretty calligraphy curled on the right: _complice ou bourreau?_

You frown – and maybe blush, just a little – and then, one after the other (like cherries, mother used to say) you notice all the little phrases scattered across sun-tanned skin.

Wrapped around a hip, so you can only see the start of it: _Ne suis-je pas un faux accord–,_ cut off by the shadow of a hip bone. Lining the back of his neck: _Militiae species amor est._ And you know this one, thank you Latin classes. Ovid, Ars Amatoria, _love is a kind of warfare_.

Lastly you notice the words circling his right wrist, and you can only make out _arrêtez le monde_ ,together with the vines and grapes that shift on his left forearm when he reaches up to spray golden paint on the wall.

(And maybe you also notice the way his jeans ride low and show a strip of neon green underwear… and it’s not really your fault if he bends down and shakes his messy dark curls and then stretches like a cat. And it’s not your fault if the muscles in his back shift as he rolls his shoulder back – inked words wrinkling – and he _arches_ because his back is sore).

And you don’t _notice_ as much as you _realize_ it then.

Oh.

It’s _Grantaire._

And you really can’t help but realize it, because his stretching makes him turn around, and he catches sight of you and his blue eyes go wide.

(You can now read the rest of the phrase on his hipbone, _–dans la divine symphonie?_ as well as one tracing his collarbone, _Il n’y a d’amour éternel que contrarié_ , and a smattering of stars across his ribs on his left).

“Enjolras?” he calls, and makes your name a question.

(It’s much worse that it’s your _name_ , without stupid nicknames, and it’s much worse the way his tongue curls around the _r_ ).

You don’t say anything. You think your face may be a red as a STOP sign, and your teeth may crack from you grinding them.

You’ve forgotten your anger, but something burns just as fiercely in your belly as you duck inside the oratory and avoid Grantaire’s questioning stare. You shoot past the common room and dive straight for the bathroom.

You lean your forehead against your wrist against the door – marred with graffiti that you’re almost sure _he_ is the author of – and you are not going to jerk off in the bathroom of the oratory, you are not going to jerk off in the bathroom of the oratory, you are not going to jerk off in the bathroom of the oratory, you are _not–_

 *

Much later you learn that it was not actually vandalism but a commission from Myriel himself. And when you finally see the mural – sans half-naked, _distracting_ artist – it very nearly takes your breath away.

You can see Don Myriel himself, and then every single one of the Amis, rendered in loving detail. It makes you think of years from now, when you’re all gone and these will just be generic faces to the kids here. Except, to you, to the artist, to Myriel, they’re not.

And you’re there too, of course, in the forefront, leading your laughing friends, and your eyes are ablaze, your hair a golden halo and –

Oh.

_Oh._

That can’t possibly be how Grantaire sees you.


	2. Chapter 2

If you were to take a deep breath, you would smell that unique mixture of saltwater, sand and heat, with the hint of orange orchards in the distance. If you were to listen, you would hear the waves wrecking the shore. Smells and sounds of home you have played over and chased in your head in the long nights you’ve spent away.

And now you’re here and you can’t pay attention, you don’t _want to_ , because the sting of Grantaire’s teeth on the soft skin of your neck is deliciously distracting.

You’ve sneaked out of the house you’re sharing with everyone, hid yourselves away in the courtyard, where he pressed you against the coarse white wall. Leaning back as you are you’re still slightly taller, but not quite as much.

The first time you kissed him (could it have been just two days ago?) he tasted like salt, and was slick with the sea under your hands.

This thing you have is still fragile in the light of day, but at night it’s solid enough to touch (it’s Grantaire’s dark curls in your hands and the breathless sound he makes when you _tug_ ).

And so you can barely hear the sea past Grantaire panting in your open mouth. You cannot smell the orchards over the sweat and shampoo.

And you really can’t _think_ , not with his hands ghosting the skin just above your swimming trunks, tracing the bones of your hips.

You sigh his name and do not have the coherence to be embarrassed by it.

“What?” he asks, hoarse. Can’t he believe you said his name just to have it on your lips?

You’re not sure why you think of it, but it flies out with no prompt from you, “That day – _mmmh_ – when you were painting the – _ah_! – oratory…”

Your hips keep meeting, which drives you wild, and Grantaire rises from where he’s worrying at your collarbone to answer. “Mmmh, yeah. You were acting mighty strange,” he says, between kisses.

“I’d – uh,” you scrape his scalp with blunt nails and he whimpers. “Never seen your tattoos before.”

Grantaire retaliates by scratching along your back, making you arch into him. “Well, you’d never seen me shirtless.”

He reaches up to kiss you again, and you bend down to meet him, except he blinks and realization seems to dawn on his face. “Is that why –?”

“No!” you reply. Too fast.

The grin breaking on his face is positively _sinful_.

“My, my, Apollo,” he whispers, low enough to make you tingle. His hands wander lower, fingers between your trunks and your bare skin, while his lips wander higher, to a spot just beneath your ear. “Didn’t think I could have quite that effect on you.”

Your hands clench around his hair and make him hiss. “I think it’s – quite, ah, quite clear you can.”

It’s not like he hasn’t had your erection pressed against his thigh for the past ten minutes.

And _no one_ should be allowed to chuckle quite so seductively. “Is that why you ran away so fast?” he asks, and his clever hand is all the way down in your pants, making you shudder and gasp. “Did I make you hard, Apollo? Did you hide in the bathroom?”

It isn’t easy to be quiet, with his hot breath in your ear and his fingers closing around you, way, _way_ too slow. Fucking tease. He’s still grinning when he meets your eye and sees the guilty look on your face. His eyes widen, delighted. “You _did_!”

“ _Shut up_ ,” you hiss, and buck towards him, taking advantage of your grip in his curls to pull him up and kiss that stupid grin off his face. There’s nothing gentle in it, in the play of teeth and lips and tongue, but you can feel him practically _glow_ with satisfaction, and you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

His hand tightens just so. Starts moving faster. Your lips fall open, your eyes shut, lights bursting behind the lids.

“Did you think of me while you did it, Enjolras?” he’s still growling low, against your lips. And _Jesus, Mary and all the saints in heaven_ , your name shouldn’t sound so wicked coming from his mouth. “Did you say my name?”

You don’t remember, and even if you did, your tongue seems unable to string together a complete sentence. Eloquent, bright Apollo, rendered a shuddering mess under the resident cynic’s hands.

You don’t mind.

You say it.

“ _Grantaire_.”

When you come, you’re gripping his shoulders hard enough to carve half-moons in his skin. Your eyes flutter open and you see him smiling up at you, almost goofily. He is ridiculously pleased with himself and you think it’s a good look on him.

So you kiss him slow, in lazy post-coital bliss. His heart is still hammering against your chest, so you smile back, taking a deep breath as your own slows down.

“Need a hand?” you ask, and he makes a sound halfway between a snort and a giggle. His forehead drops to your shoulder and his hand slips out of your trunks. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, helplessly, and his nose brushes your neck.

He drops a kiss there, while you reach down to return the favor. 

And he says your name. Again.

And again.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, thanks to Izzie firmine for the French quotes *blows kisses*  
> Title is shamelessly taken by Meravigliosa Creatura by Gianna Nannini because it is so E/R (specific line being _suddenly you descend to heaven/I die of wonderful love_ )


End file.
